


Way Down Deep

by fiveainley_ohmy



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveainley_ohmy/pseuds/fiveainley_ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor accidentally looks into the Master's mind and sees something he wasn't meant to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Way Down Deep

When the Master caught wind, from some of his underworld connections on Vias Yokas, about the Devotobian Prince being in possession of a diadem that could burrow into and control minds, he of course had to have it for himself.

Not that the Master was incapable of doing those things unadulterated, but being the owner of such an item could enhance his abilities so much more. Not to mention that the Prince of Devotob was a well known spoiled brat, not to mention an idiot. He was barely into adulthood and was already getting ready to accept the throne. Such a powerful artifact would be useless-or even dangerous-in such hands. Which is why he shouldn't have been surprised when his infuriately good little arch nemesis arrived. “My dear Doctor,” said the Master silkily, clutching the diadem as he turned to look upon his old enemy. “A great pleasure it is to see you again. I assume you are also here to witness the crowning of his Royal Highness?”

“Oh, I'm here for the same reason you are, Master, but we both know it's not to watch the crowning of Prince Neffrey.” The Doctor took a small step forward. “The diadem. Give it here.”

“My dear Doctor,” said the Master with feigned shock. “You of all people would stoop so low as to steal a nation's property? What have these cosmos come to?”

“Prince Neffrey will abuse the power, turn the people of Devotob into his slaves. However, so will you. So you'd best give it to me and save us a dance.”

The Master clasped the item to his chest. “I'm sorry. But you know I'm not going to do that.”

“Yes, I do. Just thought I'd give you a chance.” The Doctor sprung for the diadem and he tried to prise it from the Master's fisted hands. They fought for it for several minutes. “Give me the diadem,” hissed the Doctor.

“Let go,” the Master growled back. Suddenly, their thumbs, one smooth and one leather, simultaneously stroked over the crown's main jewel. They each felt a mental hitch. The Time Lords gasped as their thoughts melded and stirred together like two liquids poured into the same glass.

The Doctor felt a warm wave rush over his mind as his inner sight became doubled, not only with his thoughts, but now the added ones of the Master's. This mind was familiar and rich and brimming with intelligence, just like his own. It was a bit like slipping into a warm, deep bath. You can't help but let your muscles relax, swim around a bit. Try as he might to fight against it, the Doctor saw into the Master's mind. There were the things he expected, like madness, and manic ambition; and the things he suspected, like the never completely severed attachment to a childhood friend. These things didn't surprise the Doctor. Much of them he shared, and he was sure the Master was seeing them in his mind as well. But there was a dark, corroded tangle that managed to wind around the Doctor, and like an electric eel slipped inside his bathtub, it shocked him and snapped him back to reality. He focused on extricating himself from the Master's psychic web, and vice versa. Very very soon, the Master had come back to his senses as well, and jerked away from the Doctor's mind. The whole exchange took all of a second. The sharp disconnection left the Doctor feeling a touch cold and empty-stomached, but for the moment, he didn't pay that feeling any mind. That black, rotten thought vine-it had made his stomach sour, his mouth and hands go dry.

Inside the mind, that was what depression looked like.

The Master did not look at the Doctor, for they both knew what he had seen. 

The Doctor began to speak. “Mas-”

“There they are,” said the Prince of Devotob, striding in with his royal entourage. “Throw them in the dungeon.”

The Doctor and the Master were grabbed roughly by the wicked prince's thugs and hauled to the deepest, dankest part of the stronghold. They were thrown into cells next to each other and left there in the dark.

The Doctor, getting to his hands and knees, crawled across the hard stone floor of his cell to where the dark figure was sitting on the other side. “Master?” he said tenderly, reaching through the bars of the cages and touching the other Time Lord's shoulder. The Master hissed and shoved his hand away.

“Master...in your mind-”

“If you dare to speak of that again, I will make you feel more pain than you ever thought possible,” the Master whispered dangerously. “Next time I'll push you into a volcano rather than off of a radio tower.”

The Doctor ignored the Master's harsh words. “Koschei,” he said, using the name of his friend from boyhood. “Please. Let me in.”

The Master ignored him for a while longer, then finally, slowly, turned around. There was no acidity in the Doctor's face, only pure concern. The Master hated being pitied. For appearing so weak. But the Doctor had already seen inside his mind. The damage was done. It was like pulling off an adhesive bandage-he might as well just get it over with quickly.

“Very well,” he growled softly. “If it will stop your insufferable prattling.”

The Doctor nodded solemnly. He deftly reached through the bars again and touched the Master's temples. The Master moved closer to accommodate. Their foreheads were resting against the same horizontal metal rung, just on opposite sides.

The Master stayed perfectly still as the Doctor sifted through his mind with kid gloves, walked through heavy duty firewalls and mental blocks as if they were mere fog clouds. Because of course, way deep down, the Doctor was always welcome in the Master's mind.

The Doctor found the dark root, far deep into the Master's psyche. It was small, hadn't grown much on the surface. But the Doctor was very nearly as skilled a telepath as the Master, and he could tell how far down that root was buried.

“Oh, Master,” the Doctor whispered sorrowfully, mentally sinking down to sit on his haunches to stroke at the blackened parasite, the way one might brush a young child's hair or pet a cat: with all the love and care possible. The Master was soon weeping.

“Shhh, sh, sh, sh.” The Doctor cradled the Master's head through the bars and kissed his forehead like he had done when they were children. “What would make you think things like this?” he whispered into the Master's dark hair.

The Master inhaled, trying to control his breathing. “It was...when I was...dying. I was...in so much pain. Some days it was too much to bear. I just wanted it to be over.”

“But you fought so hard to live,” said the Doctor confusedly.

The Master didn't reply, but the Doctor didn't need to hear it. He already knew. _If I were dead, I wouldn't be with you._

The Doctor angled his shoulder through the bars so the Master could lay his head on him. He continued to comfort him as best he could.

“Would it have been better?” the Master asked him quietly. “If I had died?”

The Doctor knew that on behalf of the universe, he should say yes. But it would be a lie. “No,” he sighed, slowly stroking the Master's cheek and jawline, lightly scraping his fingertips over those coarse beard hairs.

They didn't speak after that for a long time.


End file.
